Beautiful Liars_a gripping thriller about friendship, dark secrets and bitter betrayal

by Isabel Ashdown

  ‘Yes, you’re doing a television programme.’

  ‘Exactly. We realise that this is upsetting territory for you, but perhaps, if you’d be happy to answer a few questions for us, we might find some new clues that the police missed the first time around?’

  Janet turns to Martha. ‘So where are the film crew, then?’

  Martha suddenly understands the effort Janet Crown has gone to this morning: the crimson gown and co-ordinated scarf, the red lipstick and pencilled brows. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, we should have explained – it’s just me and Toby today, and then, if you’re in agreement, we’ll be back with the camera guys to follow up. We just thought this first time you might … well, you might find it a bit difficult. A bit upsetting?’

  Mrs Crown reaches towards the coffee table for the cigarettes, finding the packet empty and casting it aside with limp fingers. ‘It’s fine, really,’ she replies with what seems to be exhaustion. ‘Don’t misunderstand me: it is upsetting, desperately upsetting. But really, I’ve done most of my crying. For years I think I did nothing but cry. But, at some point, life must go on, dear, don’t you agree? Now, more than ever, I take each day as it comes. Ask me whatever you like, Martha Benn.’ She fixes Martha with an unblinking gaze, her pupils huge and black in her shadowed eyes, and Martha wonders what cocktail of medication this poor woman must be on. She’s only in her mid-sixties but her ravaged appearance would have you believe she was ninety, such is the effect of this illness upon her.

  Just as Martha is about to speak, Janet raises a finger and turns to Toby.

  ‘Young man, would you be a dear and pop to the shops for a packet of Marlboro Menthols? I’m struggling to concentrate, and they do so help. You’ll find a newspaper shop at the end of the street.’

  Martha gives the slightest of nods and Toby is on his feet and out of the room.

  ‘Now we can talk,’ Janet says when she hears the front door closing behind him. Seeing Martha’s surprise, she adds, ‘I’m not terribly good around men, dear. Out of practice.’ She gestures towards Martha’s notes, urging her to get started.

  Realising that time is of the essence if she’s to engage Janet Crown fully before Toby returns, Martha launches straight in. ‘Yes, of course. I completely understand. If you’re happy then, Janet, I’ll just ask away?’

  Janet nods, and Martha’s finger trails down her notes to the first question she has prepared.

  ‘Janet, do you think David had anything to do with Juliet’s disappearance.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Janet Crown replies, unmoved.

  ‘How was David on the morning before he disappeared?’

  ‘Well. After the police had been around, he was in a terrible state. Really upset – and frightened, as you would be. Such a dreadful thing to happen to that girl in the first place, and then to be under suspicion! But after a while he seemed to pull himself together and he got ready for work like any other day.’ She looks at Martha for a moment, before adding, ‘Of course, he never came home.’

  ‘Where was he working at the time?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Where do you think he went?’

  ‘Well, he ran away, didn’t he? But I don’t know where.’

  ‘Do you know why he ran away?’

  ‘Like I say, when the police came asking questions about that girl—’

  ‘Juliet,’ Martha interrupts, bristling at Janet Crown’s use of ‘that girl’.

  ‘Yes, that’s it, Juliet. Well, I was there when those two officers spoke to David and I can tell you there was a definite air of bad feeling from them. They were asking what kind of “relationship” he had with Juliet, whether they spent any time together outside of the charity work, if he’d been alone with her the night before. It was shocking, the tone they took, as though I wasn’t even in the room! The female officer was the worst. She glared at him throughout, as if she was trying to unnerve him, to catch him out. As if she’d already made her mind up that he was guilty.’

  ‘And how did the police leave things after that interview? Did they say they wanted to see him again?’

  ‘They asked him to report at the station that evening, to make a written statement. If you ask me, they wanted him to sweat it out during the day. I think they really believed that he’d murdered the girl! That poor girl,’ she says now, her eyes misting over. ‘And her parents. Her mother and father. You never get over something like that, you know?’

  The sun breaks through, throwing light across Janet Crown’s frail figure, and Martha sees something new in her, a softer, more vulnerable side. She’s been carrying the weight of her husband’s disappearance with her for all these years, Martha realises, never able to start afresh, never knowing what really happened, or where he went. Surely that must be worse than if he had simply died? A death is at least an event, a full stop. When people say it’s time to move on, perhaps it’s possible after a death, given enough time. But a disappearance is something else altogether. For the first time, Martha sees that Janet Crown too is a victim in all this. It’s no wonder her manner is a little odd, her reactions somewhat clipped and unemotional; she must have suffered enormous torment over the years. Perhaps this is what has aged her so prematurely, more so than even the cancer.

  ‘Were you happy together?’ Martha asks, returning to her questions. ‘You and David.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Did you love him?’ A similar question, a different emphasis. As she asks it, Martha hopes Mrs Crown doesn’t feel she’s trying to trick her.

  ‘More than life,’ Janet answers without pause. ‘He was my everything. And I was his.’

  ‘You didn’t have any children …’ Martha continues.

  ‘Yes,’ Janet Crown replies, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘I did. We did. But…’ She breaks off, bringing a curled hand to her mouth. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Martha says, genuinely shocked by the news, and ashamed that she’d managed to miss this fact in her research. ‘It’s a terrible thing, to lose a child. Do you think that’s why David wanted to help out in the community? With Square Wheels? A sense of doing something good in the world?’

  Janet’s smile is bright and instant. ‘Yes – yes, I do. Such an insightful young woman. That’s exactly what he wanted to do. David was the kindest man you’d ever meet. You ask anyone who knew him. He was thoughtful, caring, hardworking. I couldn’t have hoped for a better man, and that’s why it was so devastating for him to come under such bitter suspicion like that. The police couldn’t have been more wrong.’

  ‘But why would David flee, when he had nothing at all to hide?’

  Janet hesitates, before patting her lap lightly, as though making up her mind to confide. ‘When we were younger we lived in Bedfordshire, where David was a teacher in a girls’ secondary school. We’d met in Cambridge, and had been married for eight or nine years, but we were still like newlyweds, with everything ahead of us. We’d just started a family, and David getting this job was the icing on the cake. We loved it there! Such a happy home. Really, we thought we’d stay there forever. Over our first year or so, we got to know several of his colleagues quite well, and David was a wonderful teacher by all accounts. But then there was an incident, an allegation – quickly proven to be entirely fabricated – and, despite there being nothing in it, it forced David to leave his job and we relocated here.’

  ‘Vicky Duke,’ Martha says, and Janet Crown blinks at her. Martha had finally spoken to Vicky just this morning, only for Vicky to refuse to discuss the allegation, warning Martha that if she or her team persisted she would report her for harassment.

  ‘Yes, that might have been her name,’ Janet says, looking as though she’s lost her thread.

  ‘She made it up?’ Martha prompts, smiling, urging her to continue.

  ‘Yes! Yes.’ Her eyes roam the room, landing on the empty cigarette packet and up towards the doorway. She clasps her restless fingers in her lap. ‘So, that morning
, after the police had come here asking about the missing girl, David went into a blind panic. He was convinced that they had put the two things together and jumped to all the wrong conclusions. He was terrified. I tried to tell him there’s no way they could know about what happened at St Cuthbert’s, but he wouldn’t have it. I tried to tell him the girl – Juliet – would turn up, that she’d most likely just stayed at a friend’s house overnight, that he needed to calm down. I’d never seen him so scared, but after a bit he seemed to pull himself together, agreed that I was probably right, and headed off to work. That was the last time I ever saw him.’

  Martha’s pulse is racing. Could David Crown really be innocent? Everything his wife says, the way she says it, the love she still has for him – it sounds so compelling.

  ‘And now,’ Martha ventures, wondering how Janet will take this last question. ‘It’s been eighteen years, without a word from or a sighting of David. Janet, do you think it’s possible that your husband is dead?’

  ‘Oh, no, dear!’ Janet smiles, half-closing her eyes and resting her head against the back of the seat. She looks corpse-like in the cool morning light, and Martha worries that she’s worn her out before she’s had a chance to get to the end of her questions.

  She slides forward in her seat, reaching out to touch Janet Crown gently on the wrist. ‘You don’t think he’s dead?’

  Janet lifts her head and fixes Martha with a surprised expression. ‘No, dear. I know he’s not dead.’ With great effort she reaches over the coffee table and pushes the box of postcards towards Martha. ‘He’s been sending me these for the past sixteen years. From all over Europe, they are. The most recent one arrived just last week.’ If Mrs Crown notices Martha’s stunned expression, she doesn’t acknowledge it. ‘And guess what, dear? He sent it from right here in London!’

  16. Casey

  I know exactly where Martha will be today, because she told me in her email this morning. She said, We’re off to visit Janet Crown this morning in Craig Street – it’s only a few streets from you, isn’t it? Maybe we could have that coffee afterwards? Give me a call if you get this message in time. We should be done around midday.

  I’ll ignore the message for now, but I’m afraid it really is only a matter of time before she loses patience altogether and cuts me from the team. Later on I’ll find a way of alerting her to the MisPer conversation I’ve been working on – perhaps an anonymous call to that helpline number she told me about – and invent some reason or other for not having been able to meet up today. I could tell her I had to take an emergency appointment, with a client in distress. A suicidal one, even. Yes, that’s good. That should stall her for a while. ‘Stall her’. I can’t help but laugh. I’ve even started to think like a private investigator! Right now, I’m sitting on a wooden bench at the end of Craig Street, opposite the newsagents and with the house in view, feeling glad I wrapped up so thoroughly before I set off, though my thoughts were more on disguise than warmth. Not that Martha would recognise me, what with my not actually being Liv, but still, you never know who might be out and about, and it’s best not to draw attention if you can avoid it. I’m wearing a dark wool beret, with the lower half of my face obscured by my scarf, and I feel quite the Secret Squirrel. Underneath my duffel coat is the emerald-green jumper I ordered online – nearly the same as Liv’s – and, even though only I know about it, it gives me a kind of strength to be dressed a little like her. I tried to get some patterned leggings too, but couldn’t find any in my size that were even close. If only I could have asked her where she bought them.

  I arrived here at eleven o’clock, hoping to catch a glimpse of Martha entering the property, but it’s now coming up for quarter past and there’s been no sign. My mobile phone is in my gloved hand, poised to take surreptitious photographs if I can. But it’s not long before I’m starting to feel cross with myself as I realise I’ve arrived too late. Martha must already be inside.

  ‘Bobbins,’ I curse beneath my breath, feeling the chill of the cold bench beneath my backside. Five more minutes pass, and then at last the door to number 14 opens and I’m surprised to see a tall young man exit, carefully pulling the door behind him before looking up and down the street, as though in search of something. Where’s Martha? I want to shout out to him, but as he turns and walks in this direction, apparently heading for the shop, I realise – aha – this must be Toby. Martha’s second in command! Within moments we are level, he on one side of the street, me on the other, and the breath inside my lungs is caught tight. I’m not sure whether to come or go. He can’t possibly know who you are, the rational part of my brain tells me, while the neurotic side rears up, screaming at me to run!

  As he reaches the shop entrance, he glances in my direction, so briefly, before pushing in through the door and out of my line of vision. I allow my breath to escape my lips in a long, slow breath, white as cigarette smoke.

  Well, Martha Benn, I reflect now that I’m getting my nerves under control, you kept that little detail to yourself! The mysterious Toby, it turns out, is dazzling. ‘Quite the dish,’ my mother would have said in her day. ‘Quite the heartbreaker.’ No sooner have I entertained this thought than I’m batting away fantasies of Toby exiting the shop and meeting my eye, of him crossing the road to join me on the bench, where we’ll strike up a conversation – awkward at first but growing quickly more effortless – and I’ll invite him home with me, for tea or coffee. Or more. But the door to the shop remains firmly closed and I look down at myself, at the great big stinking lump of me, and I think I must be insane. Why would a man as beautiful as Toby ever look at a monster like me?

  Once upon a time, I was thin as a rake. When I was thirteen, Dad tried to encourage me to join a local youth theatre, to get me to mix with other girls my age, he said, to ‘broaden your horizons and spread your wings.’ I only went along with it to please him, to show him that I could do anything if I put my mind to it, to reassure him that I wasn’t just this weird, reclusive kid with no friends and no outside life. The truth of it was, I was all of those things and worse, and on the morning of the first session at Theatre Plus I was terrified. I don’t think I’d spoken to another child in at least three years, not since his last failed attempt to join me up at the music club on Blaine Street where, crippled by shyness, I’d sat alone on the bench until my mum was called early to fetch me home.

  On this particular Saturday morning, the sun was shining hot over London as Dad and I set off together along the street, leaving Mum washing up and singing along to her Lloyd Webber CD. Dad was trying to make conversation, but I could barely think of an answer, so preoccupied was I by my fears of the new experience ahead of me. Will they make me speak in front of everyone? Will they make me dance? Will they laugh?

  ‘Why don’t you take that off?’ Dad said, nodding at the pink quilted jacket I’d pulled on as we’d left the house. There was a glistening film of perspiration across his upper lip and brow. ‘You’ll boil your brains out!’

  I shook my head, feeling the cold deep in my bones, and I could tell from the disbelieving look in his eyes that he thought it was because I didn’t want anyone to see my body. He and Mum had been talking about it a lot lately, when they thought I wasn’t listening: him saying he was concerned about my health, her telling him not to be so dramatic.

  ‘I’m a bit chilly,’ I said, suddenly lighting on the idea of illness. ‘Maybe I’m coming down with some—’ But he cut me dead.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, young lady! You’re not getting out of it that easily!’ He gestured towards the building opposite. ‘We’re here now!’

  A bossy girl called Matilda was assigned to look after me, and as my dad said goodbye and walked away, I felt my heart sink. How would I get through the next two hours?

  ‘Just smile,’ Dad had advised me as we arrived. ‘Who could resist a smile like yours?’ A smile was one thing, but how could I be normal and likeable and chatty and fun? I’d seen how other girls were in films and on TV, so I
knew what ‘normal’ looked like. But I’d never seen a ‘normal’ I could relate to. I’d never seen someone who felt like me. I’m not just talking ‘pretty’ or ‘ugly’ or ‘fat’ or ‘thin’; I mean I’d never seen anyone who seemed to be like me on the inside, let alone the out.

  Over in our designated group, Matilda introduced me to Bethany, Keesha and Joy, before tugging at my padded jacket, insisting I take it off before warm-ups. ‘It’ll restrict your movements,’ she informed me with authority, with a smile so straight-toothed and convincing that I was powerless to resist.

  And so I acquiesced, revealing my thirteen-year-old self in blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt made for someone far younger than me. Matilda gasped. The group gasped, and, as my eyes took in the other inhabitants of the church hall that was home to Theatre Plus, it seemed the whole theatre company gasped.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Matilda whispered, loudly enough for the rest of our group to hear. Her delicate hand reached out and came to rest on my bony wrist. ‘You’re so thin.’

  Within half an hour my mother had arrived, wrapping me up in her warm embrace, returning me to the safety of home. I didn’t go back.

  As Toby emerges from the shop across the road, I realise my cheeks are wet. Silently, I watch him return along the street, hands in pockets, walking slowly as though killing time, not casting so much as a cursory glance in my direction. Stealthily manoeuvring my mobile phone from my pocket to my lap, I photograph him in a series of action shots along the street, before he knocks at number 14 and an unseen hand opens the door to let him in. Alone on my bench, I watch the world, as though through glass. An elderly man on a bicycle cycles past, his helmet scuffed and wonky. A woman pauses at the far end of the street as her small dog sniffs and pees against an overflowing rubbish bin. On the grass verge at the edge of the green a crow picks at a McDonald’s box, turning its head as a toddler runs at it, kicking the air and laughing when the bird takes to the sky. All these things go on around me, and still they seem unreal to me. No one appears to notice my presence, no one really knows I’m here. I wipe my face with the back of my glove and resolve to leave Martha and Toby for now, to return to the safety of home to sleep a while, to gather my strength. ‘Sleep is the greatest tonic,’ Mum always used to say, when things got too much to bear. ‘Sleep can make the worst of days seem better.’ Sometimes I forget how much I miss my mother. Sometimes I forget everything she did for me over the years.